The Lion King: Modern Human Version (Remastered)
by JJZ-109
Summary: Witness Kings and Successions. Geo-political movements and Corruption. Violence and Modern Warfare. Sex and Manipulation. Young Prince Simba is born into the family of a European superpower. Witness his story as a reflection of our modern world. 'The Lion King' told in a way it never before has. A more mature remake of the story I wrote when I was 14.
1. Welcome to the Pridelands

**Good evening everyone. So I'm aware I haven't posted anything here since 2013. While I did get pretty good writing some of the Judgement stuff later on, for the most part - my original humanization of the Lion King films was childish, error filled, immature and kind of cringey. Yeah I'm sure plenty of you loved it, and I'm sure more of you will - but this one is a Remaster. A story written by a man who now knows the world and is not a kid. This one will be darker, it will be more grounded, it will hit close to home. It will be different.**

**Warning, some of the content that this story will contain in the future is extremely offensive to some. Mass shootings, chemical attacks, political timelines and events that mirror real life, racism, and sexism will all be portrayed in the appropriate context. If you can't handle that I'm sure there's plenty of fluff in this category that will suit you. Also yes, I'm aware Lion King is based off Hamlet, a human story. I'm not fucking retarded. This is not Hamlet. This is a reflection of the world in which you live.**

**Cheers: JJZ-109**

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**MODERN HUMAN VERSION REMASTERED**

**WELCOME TO THE PRIDELANDS**

_A King's time as ruler rises and falls like the sun. The sun has set on his time here, and will arise again with a new King. The circle of life in this proud, unwavering nation will carry on. We will carry on. _

_Have a good evening Pridelanders; this is Channel 12 signing off._

With that, the image faded to the glorious blue, green and white. A Pridelander flag waving proudly on screen as the last few bars of the iconic national anthem, _Circle of Life_ played in a distorted, but emphatic orchestra.

The screen tore with an unnatural rip of grey, black and white lines.

And then it faded into static.

The television was then turned off.

The Pridelands today in 2019 is a nation back on its feet. It is now 4 years clear of the tumultuous short-term period in its history. An economy producing. A society rebuilding. A military partially disarming. All the harsh sanctions, arms, trade embargoes have now been removed and the country has been reinstated as a member of the UN Security Council, NATO, and more. Stability has been restored.

What happened there? That small, but not tiny Island Nation in the Mediterranean, the stepping stone between Europe and Africa holds a history filled with more stories than the stars in the sky. The greatest of all was the most recent.

The Pridelands were initially mostly ignored by European powers throughout the Colonial Period – despite its proximity to the rest of Europe, it already had a native population and culture that was far more East African in nature. Nothing the average white European was used to, certainly. Then there was the fact than the environment was unforgiving. Despite the location – the African ecosystem thrived in the climate. Lions, hyenas, rhinoceroses, and the like roamed free on the grasslands.

It all changed in the 16th century. The British were the first to tame the wilds of the Pridelands, fool the natives into deals where unbeknownst to them they became increasingly subjugated, and establish several colonies. The largest of which was Prideland City on the west coast.

Aside from the British, disinterest from Europe remained key in the development of conditions in the Pridelands. One key condition that defined the scape of the Colonial Pridelands was slavery. While not particularly fond of slave labour themselves, the British overlords definitely saw no harm in making massive profits selling natives into slavery to the Spanish, Dutch or Portuguese. This mentality carried over into the British selling Pridelander natural resources, such as gold, iron, ivory, and livestock. Pridelander natives, colonists or slaves did not see a cent of that profit.

It boiled over in 1741. The tribes who had long suffered, and many of the colonists, who had begun their suffering recently, united. They declared their own king as separate from the British crown. And rebellion began.

1750 saw the British formally withdraw and recognise the independence of the Pridelands. The cost of the conflict simply wasn't worth it. The Pridelanders won their slow war of resistant attrition. The first king sat on his throne and watched his new country grow. Prideland City was the obvious choice for the capital.

The bloodline had been established. The order of succession was no different to any other European monarchy. However, it became custom for the ruler of the Pridelands to take either a native name or a name in the native language before they were crowned. This eventually became the tradition where royal children were named that way, instead. Eventually it extended into all Royal Family members, although inconsistently.

The Pridelands continued to industrialize throughout the 19th century. The young nation continued to expand and grow within its own borders. While areas with the once proud wild space still existed, the 'Prideland Frontier' rapidly became a thing of the past. The nation stood by, isolated itself during the First World War and continued to grow and arm itself, slowly but surely making a name for itself on the world stage. It was a founding member of the League of Nations.

In 1929, it was as if the exponential growth came to a grinding halt. The economic virus that started in New York hit the Pridelands. Depression struck, and the economic strength lapsed. Worst of all – there was no quick way out for the country. There was no 'New Deal' like how the Americans got from Roosevelt. There was no Nazism like how the Germans got from Hitler. There looked to be no escape from the Great Depression.

The people, looking for someone to blame – forced the King to abdicate. His brother, King Mohatu succeeded him. The only way the King saw to navigate his kingdom out of the downward spiral was rearmament. That was only half of his motivation though – the Great King Mohatu's greatest gift beside his wisdom was his foresight. He could sense the war coming. Not to say he didn't do his best to prevent its outbreak, however. He attempted to appease Nazi Germany by signing a non-aggression pact in 1938. In 1941 the Pridelands were betrayed by Adolf Hitler. The German war machine bombed Prideland City's largest Naval base, and began their march from the north down to the capital.

The Great King Mohatu refused to let hope be lost. Every day, and every night he was on public radio rallying his subjects to take up arms, to enlist, and get behind their homeland's war effort. Sure enough, a year later – the occupation was forced out by the resilient and unflinching Pridelanders. The military and civilian population alike rallied to defend their home. And they succeeded. In 1942, the Germans were being forced backwards.

The wartime years were for many years the most defining in the country's history. The next King and Queen married in 1945. After Mohatu, the greatest King in the Pridelands' history to that point passed in 1957, King Ahadi was crowned.

King Ahadi ruled from 1957 until 1972, suffering an early and untimely death. From there, King Mufasa was crowned at the extremely early age of 22. He overtook the second half of the Pridelands' leadership during the Cold War. He had become one of the most iconic, recognizable and respectable world leaders. The very image of his face, his signature glare, his deep bass-filled voice, his typical cigar – all became national symbols of the Pridelands in the modern era.

The nation prospered under him. They had the most powerful economy in Europe with the highest GDP per capita by 1994, and eventually highest gross GDP in Western Europe. Quality of living skyrocketed, and the nation was on par with the best in the world in terms of freedom of speech, press, and assembly. It was the foremost Constitutional Monarchy in the world, a beacon of the successes of democracy.

King Mufasa remained childless until 1994. And there our story begins.

The television then flickered, the static quivering to form an image.

"_Today in October 1994 the next King of the Pridelands has been officially presented – "_

Images of a baby being lifted high in the air with tens of thousands of paparazzi flashes lighting up his face played, before the static cut off the broadcast yet again.

"_Tragedy has struck our city, nation and our pride as peop-"_

Distorted, film grain stained imagery on shaky camera depicted gunmen, active shooters in black walking forward slowly. Screams and shots could be heard through the ear piercing signal distortion.

"_It is with a heavy heart that I inform the Prideland people that my brother the King has tragically –" _

_More _static. A triumphant, orchestrated riff played while a black and red flag waved on screen, fading into the news anchor – now wearing a grey uniform, the emblem of an iron eagle clutching a lion's head behind him.

"_Good morning Pridelands. This is your daily service announcement…"_

The image flickered up and down and the screen tore with distortion again.

"…_Hail Scar…"_

Half an image of thousands of troops performing a straight-armed salute with a closed fist appeared momentarily. The leader wasn't visible on screen.

More images and audio played. Images of suffering. Faint, distant recording of AK-47 fire and screams.

Shown on screen were children wore gas masks and facemasks as they were loaded into trucks on the street. A clip of adult men and women were lined up facing a wall. A lone rebel waved the original Pridelander flag from a rooftop.

"_BBC and Al Jazeera have reported the use of chemical nerve agents by paramilitary forces loyal to the Scar government-"_

The images turned from horrific to slowly more and more triumphant. A lone, naked child walked along a long dusty road, Prideland flag in hand. A T-72 tank faced him down.

"_We will never back down!"_

Video of what appeared to be an invasion played roughly. More and more combat footage was played. Rebel machine gunners opening fire, UN peacekeeping forces steamrolling through countless roads, and finally a sole flare flying up in the sky.

"_Our King has returned."_

A muscle bound, auburn haired man dropped to his knees and thrust his arms up to the heavens, searching the sky with his eyes too. The blue, green and white, slowly rising behind him.

"_Today we claim back what we as a people deserve…"_

Finally, the old television was turned off.

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**Ok some more FAQ, why am I redoing this? Because when I wrote the first one I was 14. I can now story-tell and write 100 times better. Will this be the same as that story except written better? No. Well, partially. The plot cues and world are the same. However, things will be depicted differently.**

**About me: I'm a 22 year old Aussie-American currently serving as a rifleman in the US Marine Corps. I live in Virginia and have a lovely Latina girlfriend. I used to be pretty active here 6 years ago.**

**Hope y'all enjoyed that and will enjoy the rest.**


	2. One day in 1994

**And back two days in a row. Just so we're all clear, this won't follow the original story's beats chapter by chapter. It'll go and move at its own pace. If you guys got questions feel free to PM me. Also anyone know what the fuck is up with the reviews? I got emailed 4, and it says there's 4 but only one appears? Retarded ass site. I see a lot of you are return customers, except the one guy who said TLK is based off Hamlet, like I said earlier. No shit mate you're a literary genius. **

**Cheers: JJZ-109**

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**CHAPTER 1: ONE DAY IN 1994…**

At 05:58 PLT (Prideland local time) there usually weren't too many radios or television sets that were switched on. On a usual day, it would have been too early for the average Pridelander. The sun had not yet even risen to the East, though the sky had gradually brightened from blackness to a slightly warmer glow.

This was not a usual day by any stretch though. There were many devices tuned in. TVs at home, and car radios were all locked on the same frequency.

At the crack of 05:59 though, the warm Mediterranean sun finally broke over the horizon.

_**NANTS INGONYAMA BAGITHI BABA**_

_**Sithi uhmmmm… ingonyama**_

Every head that belonged to anyone tuned in, across the nation, and across the globe instantly turned. The ancient cry broke out on every broadcasting device in the Pridelands in unison. Every song that had been playing, every talk show, and every commercial was interrupted. It was an ancient cry, one of the few pieces of native culture that retained prominence in the modern world.

Meanwhile, rays of sunshine slowly poured through the towering skyscrapers of Prideland city and onto the streets below.

On a usual day in the Pridelands, the streets usually weren't too busy at 6am. It was before rush hour, and before the sun had completely risen.

But it was today.

Every street, every main road, and every freeway was packed bumper to bumper with vehicles. Vehicles of all kinds were jammed in together – belonging to rich man and poor man alike, to white collar and blue collar alike. The ancient cry echoed on thousands of car radios on the huge V37 cross-nation freeway that led both in and out of the capital. People were driving in from all corners of the country, rural and urban uniting to see the same thing.

The sidewalks of the city were just as busy. People moved in droves in one direction. All manner of folk walked among them. White man and black man together, as with all other races. Construction workers had gotten off early from an early morning gig, walking with the crowd in full protective gear and high visibility vests not even removed after leaving their jobsites. Also among them were men, women and children of all ages.

One family slowly but excitedly made their way forward along with the crowd. A father carried his daughter on his shoulders. On her face was streaked stripes of blue, white and green in children's face paint. She happily waved her little Pridelander flag as the morning breeze made her pigtails flailed in the early morning breeze.

PCPD Officers guided the crowds and maintained order calmly and professionally. There were very few if not any incidences where they were needed for anything more than simply guiding the crowds and closing roads.

Overhead, News helicopters for Channels 4, 7 and 12 soared forward. Then came aircraft representing international media outlets.

Then, a single large UH-60 Black Hawk painted white with dark green patterns ripped ahead of them. It had the image of a lion's head and crown on either side door. It ignored the masses heading through the city and beyond.

Its rotors thumped through the air in a quick rhythm, the aircraft making its way towards Mt. Kituo, at the base of which was the palace.

Capitol Palace was a 40-storey behemoth that rested on the west side of Mt. Kituo and was perhaps the most defining feature of Prideland City, despite the fact there were buildings far taller. It was the residence of the Royal Family, who lived on the 37th and 38th floors. It was also home to all business regarding the Royalty; administration, protection, management and marketing, (limited) tourism as well as a small but luxurious barracks for the Honour Guard trusted with the security of the Royal Family; a small selection of the most elite members of the Prideland Royal Marine Corps. That being said, security at the palace also occupied much of the space. It had one of the largest small arms armouries in the Pridelands underground, as well as a complete pool of royal security vehicles such as bulletproof black Range Rovers and Cadillac limousines. The palace was complete with a helicopter pad on the roof.

And that is where our Royal Helicopter, designation 'Lion Guard One' touched down. Two columns of Prideland Royal Marines marched up in perfect unison to meet the helicopter, before facing inwards.

Chief Administrative Officer of Royal Affairs Zazu Atkins stepped off the helicopter, in his finest blue suit, with a little PL flag pin on his collar. Despite the blustering from the rotors, Zazu straightened his body and fixed his suit.

From the elevator, the man himself then appeared.

"_Present…Arms!" _

In one perfectly unified snapping motion, every varnished Lee-Enfield rifle was lowered to the deck, and every Marine's right arm snapped up to a perfect salute, biceps parallel to the ground.

King Mufasa powerfully marched to the middle to meet Zazu. Rather than his usual suit, he was in full uniform. His overcoat was almost a golden shade of tan, with the undershirt and tie a neat lighter khaki colour. On top of his neat neck length auburn hair was a scarlet beret, complete with the King's insignia on the front. The lion's head with a crown on it yet again. His left breast was adorned with several medals. He didn't know what any of the damned things meant in his case, but Mufasa wasn't one to break tradition. He kept himself well groomed too. Despite his slightly longer hair length and beard; it was all extremely well trimmed and maintained.

"Congratulations, sir." Zazu said briefly, before smiling and bowing slightly.

Mufasa just extended his hand, and his most trusted civilian adviser shook it firmly.

By the time the sun had fully risen over the City, the crowd had settled in – tens of thousands of people had flooded into the memorial park – a massive grass strip dotted with monuments in front of the palace. It was flanked by speakers and amplifiers to relay the action down the immense crowd. Screens had also been set up with live, zoomed in broadcast on the balcony.

_On a path unwinding…_

_In a circle_

_Circle of Life._

As the last few bars of the national anthem played, hands when from over hearts to applauding loudly. On the last repetition of _'Circle of Life' _a flight of vintage PRAF Spitfire fighter planes soared over the palace, streaming blue, green and white smoke in their wake. As the planes made their lap of the palace's airspace, King Mufasa stepped out onto the 38th floor balcony's short catwalk – and instantly the crowd hushed into murmurs. The two Marine 'Lion Guards' rendered a neat salute as he passed them, which he returned.

His wife, Queen Sarabi followed him out – facing the masses of patriotic people. More applause followed. Neither said a word. She linked arms with him and they stood at the balcony's edge. Behind them, the Lion Guards cut their salute and raised their varnished rifles to present arms.

Behind them, through all the chaos before them – the loud ambience of the crowd, and the orchestra of flash photography and paparazzi, the cry of an infant broke out. It was the only noise they could focus on.

Father Dr. Rafiki Busara was the palace chaplain and overseer of spiritual and medical affairs. It used to be two different positions; however unusually for an ordained man Rafiki was a licensed medical practitioner. He held far too much trust and esteem in the Royal family and administration to be looked over for either job.

He was also of native African blood. His hair was balding and greyed, the dark skin on his face wrinkling elegantly.

He held the infant close to his chest, not taking his eyes off it as he stepped closer to the balcony's edge.

Television cameras focused in on them now. The camera flashes from the paparazzi in the designated media areas and the crowd erupted into an inferno of light before them.

In the past, it was customary for the chaplain to raise the newborn prince into the air to present him to the people. But in this day and age, safety concerns dictated holding a baby off of a balcony 38 storeys above ground level probably wasn't the smartest idea.

Fr. Rafiki slowly removed the blanket from the baby's face, and sat him upright in his arms, facing out to the crowd. Out to the world.

The cameras zoomed in on the baby's face, and for the first time that day – his eyes opened wide.

The crowd burst into cheers, applause and whistles. Fireworks rocketed up and burst overhead, painting the early morning sky.

The child was nowhere near old enough to comprehend what was happening before him. He had a whole nation cheering for him, and a whole nation to follow him.

His name was Prince Simba J. Taylor, born 11th day of October in the year of our lord 1994.

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**So how was that to start us off? Nvm actually. Way back when, I used to do this shit for the reviews. Now? It's to print my own imagination. Enjoy your days. **


	3. Politics and Princes

**And here is Chapter 2. No further comments from me. That tech glitch I mentioned earlier seems to have been solved. Hopefully this chapter reflects the maturity I was going for in this story. For the one who asked, will this include elements of the 2019 remake? Yes. It will. Not that there's much difference between that and the 94 version but yes.**

**Cheers: JJZ-109**

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**CHAPTER 2. POLITICS AND PRINCES**

Simba's presentation headlined every major domestic and international news network on television. Footage of the clueless, tiny infant obviously upset by the crowd and noise were all that could be seen no matter what you changed the channel to. Mufasa stood on the Palace catwalk in full uniform, putting on his usual forced 'Public Relations smile' as some in the inner circle of Prideland politics liked to call it, and waving to the crowd and photographers/videographers. Sarabi did much the same, dolled up in makeup and a dress that probably cost thousands of Pridelander taxpayer dollars.

"_Today at 6:15am local time, Prince Simba J. Taylor was officially unveiled and presented to the public and to the world. The child is now the future King of the Pridelands becoming first in the line of suc-"_

The television set was switched off before it could irritate its' owner any longer. The plastic of the remote slowly crushed in his grip. It then cracked and snapped, allowing two AA batteries to clatter to the marble floor.

Scar stood in the grand living room of his estate, staring at a black TV screen blankly. He exhaled loudly before loosening his grip on the remote, and letting the device clatter to the ground in pieces.

Inspecting his cut palm, he gently wiped the blood away with his other thumb. He could feel no pain from it as much as it stung. The media stung far more. He was so enraged and shaken to the core he did not know how to react. Of course, he was past the initial fit of rage he had upon discovering the pregnancy – in which half of his house was trashed, and a maid was paid a handsome sum of money to reaffirm that she had 'fallen down the stairs' by her own silly mistake.

Now that the maggot was born though, it all became far more real. The Royal family – despite his membership of it, had officially taken everything from Scar. His position in the first in the line of succession was the least of the things he had lost in the past, but it was the cherry on top. It was rubbing salt, lemon juice, or even something as stinging as whiskey into a festering mental and emotional wound.

Scar wiped the sweat off his forehead, accidentally leaving a faint blood stain from the open cut on his hand.

_Bzzt. _

Scar removed his pager from his pocket, and quickly played the newest message he had just received.

"_Sir The Chief Administrative Officer of Royal Affairs is here to see you, shall I let him in?"_

Scar was about to reply with a firm and cold 'No', but as soon as he was ready to send the message, he heard the distant clanking of his estate gates opening. And his wife was definitely not home from work.

Growling to himself, he cursed the fact that Zazu's ID lanyard gave him gate access regardless of whether his assistants granted it or not. He had to create his own system instead of relying on the Royal network one day soon.

A trio of black Range Rovers pulled into the large driveway, with small Pridelander national flags on the hoods. The media weren't too far behind them, but thankfully at least his gate security could keep _them_ out.

Scar half considered opening the front door to meet Zazu and the two suited bodyguards he brought with him, but dismissed the idea. If he wanted to barge in, he could barge all the way in. His lanyard got him inside the house too, after all.

Prince 'Scar' Taylor straightened his black business shirt and adjusted his trousers slightly. He didn't want that pompous prick to realize that he'd been affected by the presentation. He slicked his black hair back and cracked his neck a little. Sure enough, Zazu barged in as predicted but surprisingly left his escort at the front door.

"Well if it isn't the foremost civilian official in the Royal circle, how may I be of service?" Scar smiled and gestured welcomingly, but Zazu felt the ice on every breath he made.

"Terribly sorry to enter like that, I'm really just here to simply touch base on why you _weren't _of service earlier, my Prince." Zazu played his game.

"Oh, I wasn't aware I was required this morning Mr. Atkins – you'll be pleased to know I witnessed the entire ceremony this morning on live TV. Offer Mufasa my sincerest congratulations for a spectacle well arranged. It did not look like I was needed at all." Scar turned his back on Zazu and began pouring himself a scotch on the rocks.

"While there is no legal requirement or tradition you are in physical attendance of those types of events, it presents a far more unified and positive image of the Royalty to the public if the entire family was present. I'm sure even you can understand what that means for our positioning in the mindset of the common man." Zazu explained, more and more passive aggression dripping into his tone.

"I could not give a second _fuck _about the Royal Family's positioning. I know they're at the forefront of your priorities but I have more important things to worry about." Scar said dismissively, sipping his scotch.

"Right, politics and all." Zazu leaned against his countertop and sighed.

Scar returned to his crystal whiskey decanter and held up a second empty, crystal glass.

"Drink?" He offered.

"I'm quite alright, thank you." Zazu looked away nervously.

"Nonsense man. _You are in my house._" Scar poured him a glass of Macallan 21 regardless, over two large ice cubes.

Zazu took the drink and swished it.

"Providing the public image of the Royal Family is not as much of a priority to you as your party, is family itself then?" Zazu asked cautiously now.

"No. They certainly don't care about me bar how it can help them improve their _positioning_ as you say, even though it may very well hurt my own."

"Are you hearing yourself? You are the King's _brother. _You should have been first in line –"

"I _was _first in line…until that maggot was born." Scar's voice was now dripping venom word by word.

Zazu narrowed his eyes at Scar, not quite intimidated yet.

"I'm sure the King would love to hear about the true motivations of your absence." Zazu paced slowly.

"…as would the tabloids."

Scar took a seat at the table and looked Zazu deep in the eyes.

"I'm sure they might. There's a quick buck in them for some gossip, right?" Scar played along with him.

"A quick buck or two in that story, yes, certainly. But imagine how much they could make if they got a story about…perhaps, say if the Chief Administrative Officer used the Government credit card to buy a nice family vacation to Tahiti?" Scar uttered, his lips forming into a half smile.

Zazu scoffed in disbelief.

"Or perhaps say – if they found out said Administrative officer, despite the family vacation wasn't the most family minded? Given the sexual affair with one of the Palace secretaries…Hannah, is it?" Scar stood up now.

Zazu's sarcastic smile faded, and he began to slowly back away.

"Or most concerning, keeping up with his work hours with the assistance of, I'm sure very _legally _prescribed Ritalin that rumours say is kept in his glove-box."

Zazu just stared him down now.

"Or was it dexamphetamine? I'm not quite sure." Scar followed him.

"Point is, I can be subjected to a little opinion-based conjecture in the media, yes…but you…" Scar looked Zazu deep in the eyes.

"I can make your career _disappear._"

Suddenly, a sharp, irritating noise broke out. It was Scar's home telephone. He did not dare break his glare into Zazu's eyes for a solid moment.

"One moment, please."

Picking it up, he kept his eyes on the King's most trusted assistant.

"_Scar. You weren't seen at the presentation this morning, is anything wrong?" _Mufasa's deep, bass filled voice cracked through the speaker.

"Good afternoon brother. I am terribly sorry about that – something came up with the party that required my immediate attention. I've already touched base with Zazu Atkins about that, about the positioning in the public eye and all. How is Sarabi?" Scar replied pleasantly.

Zazu's jaw dropped. It was impressive on how quickly Scar could shift gears for his own good.

"_I'm sorry to hear that, brother. Sarabi is fine. Recovering from the birth still, but she did well in public view today, thankfully. So Zazu went in depth with you about your role in the Royal Family's image?" _

"Oh yes, quite extensively just now." Scar shot a glare at the man as he said that.

"_Is he still there at the estate?" _Mufasa asked.

"Actually he just left." Scar raised his volume on that reply a little, giving Zazu the cue.

The dark blue suited man nodded, and headed back for the door quietly.

"_Chase him off with a gun, did you?" _Mufasa prodded, and Scar frowned a little.

"My brother, as far as brains go my party and I have the lion's share, but raw firepower? I'm afraid the dear monarchy will always win…"

"_What am I going to do with you, Scar?" _Mufasa sighed into the microphone.

"Oh pay me no mind. I'm just a third in line Royal doing my best to make a positive impact on this country in the political arena." Scar said smoothly like he was reading off of a script.

It was almost disrespectful, selling the King such marketing bullshit.

"_Scar…"_

_Beep._

Scar hung up.

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**Hope you guys enjoyed that. I'm sure the adults in the room might've. It's not quite the cartoony violence I used to write. Anyway enjoy your evenings.**


	4. Good Men

**Little bit of a longer chapter now. I've realized there's a lot to cover in this story. Anyway, enjoy.**

**Cheers: JJZ-109**

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**CHAPTER 3: GOOD MEN**

_12 Years Later_

_2006._

The painful, shrill wails of a radio alarm clock tore through the stillness of the early morning. It sat there upon the side table blasting its ringing irritance for only moments. A young hand thumped upon on it abruptly, causing no cease to the racket. The fingers to the hand searched for the _shut up_ button frantically, pressing every single button its fingertips felt. Radio stations were switched on and played, static burst out loudly, and then finally – silence.

"Ugh." A voice groaned in the darkness.

The owner of the voice sat up quietly, and rubbed his face.

"Oh wait." Then he remembered, thinking out loud lethargically.

Suddenly, he was lethargic no longer. The pre-teen boy swung his legs out of bed and stood up quickly in his boxers. He flicked the light on and swept through a pile of junk on his desk, knocking off school papers, stationary, and chewing gym.

_Ah._

He found it.

Yawning, he walked over to his ornate dresser and reached for something on top of it – something that as of right now, meant the world to him. Something that in his life in the spotlight kept his pre-teenhood sane.

He plugged his 2006 black iPod Classic into a speaker system. The boom box buzzed and seemed to complain electronically. As he browsed his music, he slipped into a white button up shirt but neglected to button it.

Across floor 38 of Capitol Palace the echo of electric guitar reverberated throughout the marble hallways. The Rock hits of the early 2000s broke out.

Simba bounded out of his room, sliding on the ornate marble flooring with his socks.

"_Hey!" _ He sang the words as he pranced his way to the bathroom.

"_Don't write yourself off yet…it's only in your head you feel left out, or looked down on…" _As he got closer to the rooms of the guards on duty, his lyrics became more and more mouthed and less sang.

He slid into the bathroom and began the morning routine. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, while shaking his shoulders, shaking his body and making faces to himself in the mirror.

After toying with several different hairstyles in the mirror he finally settled on one and combed it to the side neatly, at least for the time being. He grabbed his can of Axe deodorant and doused himself in the mist, as any twelve-year-old boy does.

He gripped the can, pretending to sing into a microphone.

"_It just takes some time, little girl you're in the middle of the ride! Everything, everything will be just fine. Everything, everything will be alright!"_

Simba belted out the lyrics to _The Middle_ by 'Jimmy Eat World', with all of the early morning energy and enthusiasm he could muster. Normally, Simba was far from a morning person. However, today was the day his father – the King and Head of State of the Pridelands had promised to conduct with him an apparent 'tradition', which his father had done with him. Simba knew not what it was, but every time one of these 'traditions' came up he was enthralled. At school, in public, with his friends, Simba always liked to be cool, and play off the fact that he was the Prince first in line to the Pridelander throne. Not too deep down though, the fact excited him. As he grew up, the more and more he understood the significance of it and the more it fed into his subtle arrogance.

He never came off as a brat though, as spoiled as he was by his lifestyle. He was careful about that. He wanted to be liked, and had seen too much media that painted people like him as pompous assholes. Sure he liked getting his way – but he didn't want to stand out too much from the average Pridelander 12 year old.

He was a normal kid at heart. Listening to 2000s punk rock, getting ready for school on a Tuesday morning, packing his sandwich and homework like all the rest.

In full uniform, he barged into his parents' room – kicking in the varnished door. In the past, he'd learned the hard way about why doing that was a bad idea. But were they really going to be doing that at 5:30am in the middle of the week? Probably not.

"Dad?"

The light and music poured into the room, and was met with two groans.

"Son turn it off…" Mufasa grumbled with his first conscious breaths of the day.

Simba quickly scrambled for his boom-box remote and clicked it off.

"Why was I woken up for this?" Sarabi mumbled, eyes still closed.

Mufasa checked his clock, before swinging his legs off of the bed.

"Before open of business hours he's your son." Mufasa replied and stood up, the very dim light reflecting off his muscle-bound body.

The King was not required to be in any sort of shape at all. Many Kings gone by had been out of shape. His father was very thin; many others in the 19th century had been extremely fat. Even the great wartime King Mohatu had a known beer gut.

Mufasa though? He worked out every day, twice a day in spite of his schedule. People often wondered how he managed to maintain his sanity with the position he was in. His reply? Fitness. Sometimes he would even go down to ground level and run 3 miles with the Lion Guard or the Marines guarding the Palace. Every muscle on his body was defined and impressive.

"So what are we doing?" Simba couldn't hide his curiosity.

"You'll see." Mufasa responded ambiguously, and shot his son a warm smile as he changed into jeans and a business shirt: enough for the small morning 'tradition'.

Simba rolled his eyes at his father, looking him in the eyes as he took his time to get ready. Grinning, Mufasa playfully shoved his son in the chest. Simba tried to use some martial art move he'd seen on TV and grip his arm – but problem was his father was ten times too strong for a move like that. Mufasa simply yanked his whole body forward and pulled the boy into a morning hug. He kissed the top of his son's head roughly but affectionately.

"Dad…" Simba growled, trying to squirm but unable to move.

"Start working out with me in the morning, son." Mufasa said as he stepped past him. Simba knew to follow.

"I don't wanna run 3 miles." Simba complained.

"But you want to be King?" Mufasa shot a glance down at him, walking towards the elevator at the end of the hall.

"Yeah King, not the King's guard. You don't have to be fit to be King." Simba replied.

"Oh but imagine all the magazines, and newspapers and websites…Simba…the fat King!" Mufasa teased.

"Dad…"

Stepping into the elevator, Mufasa produced his ID lanyard and scanned it onto the small black keypad and reader screen inside the elevator.

_Access Granted. Welcome your majesty._

Mufasa's hand traced up above the buttons to all other floors and arrived at _40\. _He pressed it.

"We're going to the roof?" Simba looked up at his father, raising an eyebrow. "Am I even allowed up there?" He asked.

"_I_ am. And I'm bringing you with me." Mufasa said confidently.

_Ding._

The brushed steel doors open, and all of a sudden Simba was hit with a wall of cold air. The wind blustered around his face and for a moment it was all he could hear. He forgot how high up he was.

There wasn't much of note up on the roof of Capitol Palace, mostly just maintenance hatches, communications antennae, and a big ugly radar dish towards the Mt. Kituo side of the building. The only major thing was the helicopter pad, which had the _Lion Guard One_ Black Hawk underneath a tarpaulin cover, tied down and chocked.

Simba followed his father towards the edge of the building. He got more and more nervous the closer they got to the little railing. His father was unfazed however, and stood toes to the edge, gently placing his hands on said railing. The wind was what made Simba nervous, it was so strong, and cold what if it –

_Oh._

The wind suddenly stopped, and sun broke over the horizon. Light poured onto the city before him, beginning with the memorial park out the front of the palace and extending onto the towering skyscrapers of Prideland City.

Simba felt the warmth of the sun on his neck as the world lay at his feet. He saw freeways and roads packed with cars in rush hour, he could see the early morning sun reflecting off of the thousands of glass windows on the towers in the City. He could see the huge container ships docked in the Harbour, and the majestic jetliners taking off and landing at King Mohatu International Airport. He even saw the things right at his feet. Zazu was in work early again; just pulling up to the Palace, and the palace detachment of Prideland Marines was conducting PT in the memorial park, running as a tight unit along the pathway, their cadence echoing across the grounds.

He knew obviously that all these things happened, but had never seen it from this perspective. The world was turning right before his eyes.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mufasa said softly, no wind to muffle him now.

"Yeah, I like, want to take a picture, even." Simba replied.

"Forget your devices. Be here in the moment with me. You're looking upon a quarter of a millennium of hard work. Hundreds of years, millions of people have dedicated their lives to building this city…excuse me, this_ country _you call home." Mufasa told him.

"And it's all yours?" Simba looked at father.

"No. Of course not, these lands, this society, this people…none of it belongs to one man. My being King is a privilege, despite the title being hereditary. Pridelanders _trust _me to represent them and be their head of state. I don't own them." Simba was paying attention now, more curious than disappointed at the answer. "The Pridelands is a democracy Simba, our title is more ceremonial than anything else, and you know that."

"So, you're just a rich guy with no power?" Simba asked.

"No son. To own is not to lead. To be a leader, to be a _King _is to be the embodiment of everything that makes the average Joe proud to be a Pridelander. To be a good man." Mufasa turned away from the magnificent view to face his son.

"How do you do that?"

"To be a good leader and good man, is to be able to do the right thing when nobody is watching. When it is most difficult. Then you will be a good leader, because when you present yourself as one to the public – you'll be deceiving nobody. You will have their trust." Mufasa put his hand on his son's shoulder as the run rose higher.

"So like, don't run off to downtown Eastbank and do crack?" Simba asked jokingly.

"Let me catch you in that neighbourhood, boy." Mufasa said sternly.

"Damn sounded fun." Simba smirked and his father gently cuffed him upside the head.

"Seriously though son, as with any city this big there are parts of it that aren't as safe as the others. You have a responsibility to yourself, to your family, and to all 82 million Pridelanders to keep yourself safe, understand?"

"Uhh sure…" Simba looked away as he said it.

"Simba."

"What? Okay. Sir yes sir, your majesty. This prince will never go to Eastbank." Simba joked mockingly.

"Come here, smartass." Mufasa headlocked his son and started walking back to the elevator as he kicked and whined.

* * *

_South Eastbank Metro Station, 7 hours earlier_

_The train subway pulled away from the station with a loud metallic whine, revealing a dirty concrete wall decorated with years of graffiti art. The clacking of the metro died away the more the train distanced itself from the stop._

_The only passenger to alight, straightened his leather jacket with the free hand he had that wasn't carrying his brief case. He then pulled out a cigarette and Zippo lighter, lighting himself a smoke._

_The tobacco smoke stood out in the dim lighting of the underground station. The man almost felt compelled to wave some of it away as for some reason the sight of it annoyed him. It must be the anxiety. He sat at one of the many graffiti-riddled benches and waited patiently. Or rather, impatiently._

_This kind level of business unnerved him to no end._

_Eventually, another figure came down from the stairway and quietly took a seat not on his bench, but the bench next to him. The man wore a newsboy cap, glasses, and a handsome grey trench coat. He sat back patiently waiting for his train._

"_Do you have my receipts?" The trench coated man asked quietly, not looking his way even._

_The man with the smoke slid the brief case over._

"_I do."_

"_And the other information I requested, signed and dated?" _

"_It's in there." The man with the smoke replied. He took a gulp. "You realize that what I've given you is enough to have me locked away for life in any country in the world?" _

"_That's the idea. Nothing quietens people better than fear." The trench coated said as he opened the brief case, inspecting the contents._

"_And I suppose I am actually getting paid for this….monumental effort of mine?" The smoker asked nervously._

"_The funds will be available in your Swiss account by the end of the week. That you can trust." The trench coated man's smooth voice replied._

"_Can I ask why, why a need for that many private contractors in a country that hasn't seen internal conflict since World War Two, and has one of the lowest crime rates in the –"_

"_It matters not why. Your job was to find, hire and acquire the number I gave you and get paid more than generously for it." The trench coated man replied coldly._

_The smoker eventually flicked his burnt out cigarette butt away and tapped his fingers on his knees anxiously. The noise of the next train arriving at the station began to echo in the underground tunnel, slowly rising in volume. In his peripheral vision, he could see the trench coated man stand up and wait at the platform._

"_Just how exactly do you plan to pay them all?" The smoker asked one last thing, as the train pulled up, the brakes whining loudly._

"_It is also your job not to ask questions." The trench-coated man replied, and boarded the train._

_The trench-coated man knew the answer though. You could pay for just about any group of people when you're the one auditing the Pridelands' budget._

* * *

**JJZ: I hope this is proof enough I'm not just plagiarising a Disney classic now, but putting my own spin on the same story. Hope it wasn't too jarring with the shift in tones. Also, I'm not begging for reviews or anything that childish, I really don't care, but if you've been reading this feel free to leave your thoughts/comments below. Don't be shy, I'm only scary in real life. **


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